Sorry
by aliis
Summary: Everybody's got regrets, but not everybody does something about them.
1. Chapter 1

"Whoo-hoo! Eat that, Ash!" yelped Sean in triumph, bobbing and weaving with the games console controller in his hand.

Ash sighed, already disgruntled with what he considered to be a vastly un-entertaining form of entertainment.

"What in the wide world...?" began Albert as he entered the crew's communal lounge area, then realised the source of the disturbance, and joined Ash in muttering, eye-rolling, and general deprecation. "I thought you were meant to be doing some research for me," he said, with a hint of disapproval in his voice.

"Done," replied Ash as he stepped across the room, stretched over the table by the window, and lifted a sheaf of papers which he passed to Albert. The senior hustler took a seat in order to study them at his leisure, and Ash strolled over to the drinks cabinet to pour them both a libation. He handed Albert a Scotch and sat opposite him to await the verdict. Sean was continuing his battle with the Wii, oblivious to the others' conversation.

"Hmmm," murmured Albert. He set the leaded crystal tumbler down on the table beside him and leafed through the pages once more, apparently seeking something in particular. "Ah!" he exclaimed, pleased at last to have found it. "I think this idea is the most appealing." He showed the page to Ash, who took it, nodded with a growing grin and said, "Think it'll fly, then?

_Eight days earlier_

Best business suits on, Sean and Mickey walked into the reception area of an up-scale City office.

"Can I help you?" the bespectacled woman at the desk enquired.

"Yes, we're here to see Miss Nicole Harris," answered Mickey smoothly. "If you'd like to tell her we're here..." He proffered his business card.

"Please take a seat." The receptionist indicated some leather couches nearby, and pressed some buttons on her switchboard. "A Mr. Gardiner is here to see you...yes, I will." Replacing the receiver, she turned to Mickey and announced, "Miss Harris will see you now." She indicated a door in the far corner of the room. Mickey nodded his thanks to her and, with Sean, walked briskly over and knocked on the door.

"Come in," said a pleasant, young voice.

The pair entered the office to be met by a fair-haired, very attractive woman, probably in her late twenties. She offered them a seat and some coffee (which they politely declined), and, rather than sit behind her desk, joined them on the easy chairs that formed a semi-circle by the picture window.

"What can I do for you, gentlemen?" she asked in a kind but forthright manner.

"Well, we have a bit of a problem," began Mickey hesitantly, and a bit of eye-play between him and Sean served to pique Miss Harris' interest.

"Go on," she prodded..

"Right...as you may be aware, certain Members of Parliament are...how can I put it...leaving town on the next train?" Mickey raised a cynical eyebrow, and Miss Harris couldn't help but smile at the analogy. "My associate, Mr. Quinn, and I are employed by the taxpayer to look after the interests of some of these MPs, and we're concerned that the aftermath of their departure may leave us in a somewhat precarious situation."

"You think the MPs who have been forced to resign will be looking for someone to blame?" Miss Harris queried.

Again, Sean and Mickey exchanged meaningful glances, and the latter replied, "Not so much to blame – they've got themselves into this situation – more like 'take it out' on someone. They're angry, they've lost not only their positions but their excessive privileges, too, and they want to find someone to whom they can give a good kicking, so to speak."

"I see." Miss Harris sat back in her chair, mulling it over. "I would need to see copies of your contracts before I can say with any certainty how you stand."

Sean smiled and leaned down to extract a file from his pilot's case. "We thought you might need to look at those," he said, handing her the paperwork.

"You obviously are aware of the contents of these already," she stated, glancing through the documents. "Do you think you have a case?" She looked over her rimless spectacles, first at Mickey, then Sean.

Mickey laughed lightly, incredulous. "Do _we _think we have a case? Sorry, Miss Harris, but that's why we came to _you_, to find out if we were on shaky legal ground, should the worst come to the worst."

Miss Harris returned his smile politely. "I find, Mr. Gardiner, that very often potential clients know exactly what they want to do, and how they want to do it, before they come to me. They just need me to enable the process." She now stared fixedly at Mickey. "The most important thing in that process is for you to be honest with me from the start. If you have suspicions about people or situations, ideas of how things may pan out, then you _must _tell me. I'm a lawyer, not a psychic or a mind-reader."

"Understood," Mickey said, with a conciliatory nod.

"Now, if you'll give me a day or two to go over these, I'll see what I can do." Miss Harris returned to her desk and made a call. "Lorraine, can you make an appointment for Mr. Gardiner and Mr. Quinn for Wednesday afternoon, please? Thank you."

_Seven days earlier_

"Mick, I think we've struck paydirt." Ash leaned out onto the balcony, steadying himself with a hand on the glass either side of him.

Mickey looked up from his conversation with Emma, saw the keen anticipation on Ash's face, and immediately followed him back into the suite. They sat together at the table and looked at the laptop screen.

"I've been listening in on the live feed from the legal eagle's office, and this is a transcript of what I've heard today, insofar as it relates to us. I mean, there've been people in and out all morning, but this is pure gold."

His friend's eyes danced as he read the word-for-word account for himself. "Brilliant, Ash. This is exactly what we needed." He sat back, relieved, hands behind his head. "I have to admit that half of me thought we'd gone to the wrong person." He sat forward again, excited at the prospect of success, re-reading the text just to prove to himself that it was real.

Emma looked over his shoulder. "So I guess I'm on?" she asked.

_Later that day_

"My name's Nicole Harris, Mr. Whitchurch. How do you do?"

"Tremendous to meet you, Nicole. You don't mind if I call you Nicole?"

"Of course not." Smiling sweetly, she sat down and motioned for the man to do so too.

"Then please call me Barnaby – all my friends do."

"Barnaby. What a charming name." Well, if he was going to be patronising and gushing, she would be too. Tossing her blonde curls over a shoulder in the manner of a hairspray commercial, Emma leaned confidentially towards "Barnaby". "How can I be of assistance?" she said in a low, deliberately sexy voice.

It worked a treat. Whitchurch cleared his throat, adjusted his tie, and stammered awkwardly.

Emma poured him a glass of water, trying not to smirk too much.

Finally regaining his composure, Whitchurch began again. "Well, Nicole, I'm sure you're aware of all the adverse publicity that elected politicians have been receiving over the past year." When she nodded sagely, he went on, "Many of the problems connected with this, er, difficult situation, have been caused by civil servants who have made a terrible mess of things like expenses claims."

Nodding in agreement, Emma daintily crossed her legs, and replied, "It must be very difficult for you to have to undergo such a public pillorying. I'd like to handle your case for you, if I can."

Hardly able to tear his eyes away from her elevated hemline, Whitchurch took another drink. "I'd be most grateful if you could, Nicole. I have several colleagues who would also be very interested in talking to you; they've asked me to test the waters, if you like."

"Well, I'd be delighted to meet with you as a group, if that would be suitable?" offered Emma.

"Indeed, indeed it would! Let me set that up for you – I'm sure we can get the use of one of the parliamentary meeting rooms at Westminster...perhaps a spot of lunch too, eh?" he winked smugly. Emma restrained her scorn at the ludicrous irony which Whitchurch seemed aware of, but certainly wasn't embarrassed about.

_Six days earlier_

"Do come in, Mr. Gardiner – Mr. Quinn. Have a seat."

"Thank you." Mickey and Sean sat down, and looked expectantly at Nicole Harris.

"I'll be honest with you, gentlemen. I don't think there is much possibility of you being successful. I've read over your contracts, and they don't leave any room for manoeuvre on your part. Whoever wrote them was very careful not to allow you any latitude at all. I'm sorry."

Mickey moved forward to the edge of his seat and leaned across the desk between him and Harris. "Surely there must be some way..."

"Unfortunately, no. There are no loopholes, no get-out clauses – just a very cut and dried contract that places responsibility fairly and squarely on your shoulders, I'm afraid."

"I see." Mickey looked dejected, Sean absolutely shell-shocked as they both stood up to leave. "Well, thank you for your time, Miss Harris. We're sorry to have troubled you."

"Not at all." The lawyer shook hands with them. "_I'm_ sorry I couldn't do more to help you." She saw them to the door and closed it gently behind them.

Still looking downcast, the two men left the building and flagged down a taxi. Once in the cab, Mickey made a phone call.

"Albert? Over to you." He rang off with a broad grin at Sean.

_Somewhere in the city_

"Patrick Carney. I've come about the night doorman's job," announced the Irishman.

"Oh, yes. Wait a minute, I'll call the building manager for you...Maddie? There's a chap here to see you, a Mr. Carney...OK, I'll tell him." Turning to Albert, the security guard said, "Miss Black will be right with you."

_Five days earlier...and counting..._

Ash's overalls and toolbox ensured that nobody looked twice at him as Albert admitted him to the premises, despite the fact that it was two in the morning.

"Now, the lift is monitored with a close-circuit camera, so I suggest that you take the stairs – they're not covered at all," Albert briefed Ash.

"Right. Anything else I need to watch out for?"

"There is a security patrol, but it's contracted to an outside firm, and they're not due back here until 3.30 – that's why I thought 2 a.m. would be best, it leaves you the longest possible time before they show up again."

"Great." Ash clapped Albert on the arm and made his way down to the basement. Once there, he checked his compass to make sure of his bearings and selected the north wall. Then he took his netbook from its hiding place in the toolbox, placed it on a workbench and fired it up.

"Right...let's see who else is here..." He clicked an icon at the bottom of the computer screen, and a list of wireless networks popped up. "_M__RPG_..._boomer_...here we are, _nharris_...ahhh, an unsecured network." Ash grinned with satisfaction as he clicked on "Connect". "I love it when technophobes leave everything running all night," he muttered happily to himself.


	2. Chapter 2

"She's not harsh at all, Ems, so don't try to be rough or brassy – she's actually really sweet."

"Awww, sounds like he's fallen for her!" Amused, Ash ruffled Sean's hair as he passed behind where the brother and sister were sitting, and dodged a swat of the hand in return.

"I'm just trying to give her as much detail as possible," explained Sean. "Don't want her to blow it as soon as she opens her mouth."

"No way," retorted Emma. "Right, so she's ready to meet this group of MPs. What does she do?" Narrowing her eyes, she watched and waited while Sean retrieved the memory from his databank of a brain.

He was visualising the scene. "She shakes their hands as they arrive...smiles, welcomes them, makes them feel comfortable. Then she's sympathising with them, like you did already with Whitchurch. After that, professional, not too sycophantic, but just totally walking the line between nice and kiss-ass."

Ash guffawed heartily and Albert merely gave a wry smile and shook his head in amusement.

"That's good, Sean," Mickey encouraged him. "Don't leave anything out; remember to give Emma an idea of some of those mannerisms – her body language, speech inflections, that sort of thing. We want this lot to be convinced they really are talking to Nicole Harris. OK?"

Sean nodded, still concentrating on the replay in his head of their two meetings with the lawyer.

"Of course, all that stuff about her not being able to help you get out of the contracts was a load of old lentils," remarked Ash, folding his arms and sitting back reflectively.

"I know," replied Sean. "It was pretty difficult to focus on everything about her when I knew she was spinning us a story."

"Whilst you yourself were doing nothing of the sort," observed Albert drily, from behind the _Daily Telegraph_.

"Ho ho, Albert, very witty," shot back Sean. "I'm going to my room to make notes; having a photographic memory's like being a performing seal here."

* * *

Sean leaned over Ash's shoulder and watched with growing admiration as the fixer copied and pasted, dragged and dropped, and saved files left, right and centre. Finally he displayed two documents side-by-side on the computer screen.

"Which one d'you think's the original?" he challenged.

"Shouldn't you be asking, 'Spooot the forgery?'" quipped Mickey from across the room.

Ash ignored him. "Well?" he asked Sean.

"Ummmm....that one!" the latter decided, pointing at the right-hand window.

"Nope. Other one," announced Ash, quietly triumphant.

Sean peered more closely at the display. "I can't see any difference between them," he confessed with a shrug.

"Good," was Ash's verdict.

"I mean, the logo, the typeface, the layout – even the watermark. They're all absolutely identical!"

"That's the idea, surely," interjected Mickey.

Ash turned round in his seat. "Don't you have anything else to be getting on with, rather than just sitting there making smart-arse remarks?"

"Oooh, touchy!" observed Emma with a grin.

"Your turn now, Ems," announced Ash. "Give us your laptop."

Emma produced a shiny new top-of-the-range notebook.

"I see you got the flashiest model in the store," said Albert.

"Of course - we do want it to get noticed, don't we?" was her answer.

Ash was meanwhile deftly moving copies of his new files to a memory stick, which he then plugged into Emma's laptop to upload the contents.

"That's you, all set to go. Just have a look round and familiarise yourself with the different templates – and I've set the whole system up with its new owner's name, OK?"

"OK, Ash." Emma settled herself down in front of her new toy and got to work.

Mickey sat beside her at the table. "You need to get as many of them as you can to agree to personal consultations. Take statements from them – you can see from these files how Harris sets them up – and encourage all your 'clients' to share as much personal detail as they like. That shouldn't be a problem for you," he said, archly.

* * *

"So, ladies and gentlemen, in conclusion, if you have any questions about your individual circumstances that you would like to discuss, I would be only too happy to meet with you privately. Please have your people call and set up a time for you; the contact details are on my card. I can see you at my office, but you might prefer a more discreet location." Emma flashed an engaging smile at the assembled MPs, and moved forward to shake hands with Barnaby Whitchurch.

A murmur of appreciative comments rippled through the room, and the meeting broke up almost reluctantly.

"It's as if they don't want to go back into the real world, where people despise them; they love the sympathy!" muttered Sean into his sister's ear. She nodded, smiled, and said, "Yes, please make sure everyone has my card, Jethro."

Sean simpered and grumbled under his breath, "Who in the world picked that name, anyway?" before circulating amongst the MPs, who were by turn arrogant and desperate.

On returning to the "office", they discovered that over twenty members had already called to request appointments. Mickey as PA had organised these carefully so that no two meetings occurred consecutively in the same place. He didn't want to run the risk of any of the marks conferring. This resulted in Emma and Sean catching taxi after taxi, running from one hotel to another, and signing into MPs' private clubs, until after two unrelenting days of this they collapsed, exhausted, onto the sofas in their hotel suite.

"I need a holiday!" gasped Sean, gratefully accepting a tall cold drink from Ash.

"So we can safely say that the MPs are on board with the 'rescue package'?" enquired Albert of Emma.

"Oh yes." She sat up, pulled a folder from her briefcase, and handed it to Mickey, then sank back into the cushions. "They couldn't get their chequebooks out fast enough."

Scanning the document, Mickey smiled and said, "Excellent. And you've got electronic copies of all this?"

"Of course," Emma replied with a touch of indignation. "It wouldn't be much use if we didn't, would it?"

* * *

"Now, this has the potential to go quite badly wrong," said Mickey as he addressed the crew. "For a start, you may come across a rare honest individual who wants to return your lost property to you."

"In which case," added Albert, "just smile and thank them profusely. Then change trains – lines, if possible – to avoid them seeing you 'lose' the item again."

"Mightn't it be a better idea to leave it in a bar or restaurant, rather than trawling the underground looking for a mark?" asked Emma.

Mickey considered this, then nodded slowly. "Yes. Pick a bar – Ash will help you on that – where you know there will be plenty of easy targets."

At this point, Albert tossed his copy of the _Telegraph_ over to Ash. "Front page and the following six," he said laconically. "Prime rib."

"Ideal," was the amused reply. Ash did a quick Google search while Mickey continued with the briefing.

"There's also the remote possibility that whoever picks it up may not run with it," continued Mickey. They won't necessarily turn it over to the police, but they might just decide to sit on it for the moment, or try and find out if it's genuine."

"Oh, come on!" argued Sean. "Why on earth would anyone think it's _wasn't_ the real thing? I mean, government laptops get left on trains practically every week."

"It's what these people do, they check everything to make sure they're not going to be sued to within an inch of their lives."

"From what I've seen, quite a lot of them do exactly the opposite – what about _Private Eye_?" Sean replied.

"That doesn't count," said Mickey firmly, to several laughs. "Any more questions?" He looked around the room. No-one spoke. "In that case, let's get going."

Emma, Sean and Albert started getting ready to leave. Ash handed them each a note of some names and addresses.

"We'll do them in order," instructed Albert. "I'll go ahead to the first one and get settled in; give me about fifteen minutes or so, then follow me. It'll give me a chance to observe and pick out a potential mark, all right?"

"Right, Albert," agreed Emma. "We'll just flag a cab in the street."

"Good, that way the concierge won't get suspicious of us going to the same address," he replied.

"No point in going mob-handed, Ash; we'll just stay here and wait for news," announced Mickey as he settled down on the sofa. "Game of chess?" he suggested.

* * *

Emma and Sean entered the second pub of the day, but they had been standing at the bar for a few minutes before they spotted Albert, tucked away in a corner with his double malt and _The Times_. Having bought their drinks and Sean's smokey bacon crisps, they positioned themselves at a table where they could unobtrusively make eye contact with the roper at work.

Suddenly Sean's phone beeped as he received a text message. Raising an eyebrow in surprise, he showed it to Emma. "Mark 1 o'clock, blue tie, been here less than 10 mins."

"How did he do that?" she hissed. "I didn't even see him move a finger!"

"Ancient Jedi skills," shot back her brother. He cast a casual glance towards the bar, as if taking in the surroundings of the traditional English pub. Turning back to Emma, he murmured, "Black suit, red shirt, dirty fair hair."

"Check," she replied. The pair sat and chatted for about ten minutes, then finished up their drinks and left, leaving Emma's laptop under the watchful eye of Albert, who stayed put. Outside, Sean hailed a taxi to take them back to their hotel. They were almost there when another text from Albert arrived. It simply said, "Bait taken."


	3. Chapter 3

"Oh, Miss Harris, Mr. Greig's here to see you. I put him in your office..." The secretary got no further.

"Lovely! Thanks, Lorraine."

"But he's not very...." the lawyer's office door shut behind her, and her PA finished, "...happy." She sat down with a bump at her post, looking glum in anticipation of the coming storm.

"Hello, Grandpapa, how nice to see you." Nicole Harris attempted to deliver a peck on the cheek, but to her amazement was rebuffed as her grandfather took a step to the side and turned to look at her. It was not a pleasant look.

"My dear, I think you have been very careless."

Her brow furrowed. "What's this about, Grandfather?" She placed her briefcase by her chair and sat down behind her desk in a subconscious attempt at self-preservation.

The tall, silver-haired man turned from the office window and continued to glare sternly at her. "You've not seen today's newspapers, then, I gather?"

"No, I don't bother with them till mid-morning. Why, what's happened?"

"This." Greig thrust a copy of the _Daily Telegraph_ under her nose. She grabbed it and read the headline: "MPs' Noses in the Trough Again".

"Nothing to do with me, I'm afraid. If your lot will go getting caught..." she began, only to have her grandfather cut her off.

"I think you'll find it's everything to do with you, Nicole. _Your_ client interviews, _your_ information, _your_ laptop, the lot."

"Rubbish. My laptop is right here." She pulled it from the shelf where she left it each night, opened it up and checked it. "See?" She turned it round so that Greig could read her username, _nharris_.

The surly man grunted, "Well, if you can be bothered to actually _read_ the paper, you'll see for yourself that they have copies of documents typed on your stationery, using your computer. All the files appear to have your electronic signature. And as for the list of clients, I know a lot of these people, and they all have a very clear recollection of meeting with you to discuss their legal position. To put it mildly, they're outraged at this shocking violation of trust. And, I may add, seeking _competent_ legal advice on the matter."

Nicole scrabbled through the pages anxiously and found the images he was referring to under the heading, "Legal documents show MPs' contempt for electorate". Frowning, she pored over them. "Yes, it's my headed notepaper...but I never wrote anything like this! And as for this so-called 'client list'...it's nothing like mine! These people are friends of _yours_, grandfather." Realisation dawned that this was exactly why he had come to see her. "You can't believe I had any involvement in this, surely!" Bewilderment was being replaced by anger, but her grandfather was well beyond that stage and on to retribution by now.

"I've given you every advantage, Nicole. Paid for your education, and not a cheap one at that; helped you set up here, introduced you to all the best-connected people...how you could manage to stuff up so spectacularly is a total mystery to me, but there we are. I'm sorry to have to tell you that as from next month, I will no longer be paying the rent on this office. And I don't think I need tell you that you won't be attracting any clients from Westminster, now or in the future. In fact, I'd be rather surprised if you don't get a call from the Law Society at some stage. I believe they take breaches of client confidentiality very seriously indeed."

Without further formalities, William Greig strode out of his granddaughter's office, letting the door slam as he went. The perplexed lawyer still sat at her desk, staring at the newspaper article and running her hands through her blonde locks in despair.

* * *

_Earlier..._

_The lawyer shook hands with Mickey and Sean.__ "__I'm __sorry I couldn't do more to help you."__She saw them to the door and closed it gently behind them, then returned to her desk._

"_Lorraine? Can you get me the Right Honourable William Greig, please? Thank you."_

_A few minutes later Nicole Harris's phone rang. "Hello?" she answered as she read through a case file. Then her countenance changed, the file was forgotten, and she said, "Thanks, Lorraine, that was quick...Grandpapa! How are you?...Oh, I'm fine. Listen, I've had those two civil servants here again, the ones I told you about. I did as you suggested and fobbed them off with the 'hopeless case' scenario... Totally. Of course, they were unhappy, but what could they say? They had to accept my legal opinion." A satisfied smirk replaced the detached, professional demeanour. "See you for supper at Wiltons, then? Laters."_

_

* * *

_

"_...here we are, _nharris_...ahhh, an unsecured network." Ash grinned with satisfaction as he clicked on "Connect". "I love it when marks leave everything running all night," he muttered happily to himself. Exploring the hard drive, Ash found everything they needed, from official stationery to client databases. He copied the relevant files from Nicole Harris's computer to his own laptop. On returning to the hotel, he booted up Emma's new notebook for the first time and, on being asked to name its user, entered, "nharris"._

_

* * *

_

_Albert tossed his copy of the _Telegraph_ over to Ash. "Front page and the following six," he said laconically. "Prime rib."_

"_Ideal," was the amused reply. Ash did a quick Google search while Mickey continued with the briefing. "Journalists' pubs in London" brought up quite a list, from which he selected the ones nearest to the offices of the _Daily Telegraph_. He followed this up with an image search for "Jeff Kelsey," the author of the most recent articles in that paper about the MPs' expenses scandal. Having found a photograph of the man, he printed out a copy for Albert._

_

* * *

_

Breakfast at the crew's suite had been a leisurely but celebratory affair over the morning papers. Bucks fizz, eggs benedict, and Albert's favourite, kippers, had been interspersed with readings from Jeff Kelsey's latest exposé of greed and corruption in parliament. The MPs baring their souls to Emma had made for sensational journalism: their disdain for the voting public, their desperation to hold onto power at all costs, their self-assurance that they were entitled to whatever they could milk from the system – all had been grist to Kelsey's mill.

The journalist had had the laptop examined by forensic computer technicians to be certain of its provenance. The experts had agreed that it was owned by someone called "N. Harris", and the documents stored on it bore this out, with their headed stationery and client list. All Kelsey had needed to do was look up Nicole Harris's website to learn more about her. He needn't go into any detail about her yet, but he wanted to be sure that she existed before he was required to give her up as his "source".

"So," Mickey asked between mouthfuls of bagel, "when do we leave?"

"I think Ash has all the details," replied Albert, as the fixer returned with another jug of orange juice from the trolley. "Vacation, Ash?" he prompted.

Ash hesitated, then said, "Yes, right...there might be a slight delay there..."

"How come?" Emma looked disappointed, her forkful of egg pausing halfway to her mouth.

_Ash nodded with a growing grin and said, "Think it'll fly, then?_

"Volcanic ash. Not me, you understand...," explained Ash, causing groans at his woeful pun. "Our flight risks being cancelled if the cloud doesn't drift away soon."

"You don't sound too upset about it," remarked Sean.

With an indifferent shrug, Ash sat down at the table. "We'll get away at some point. Bahamas'll still be there." He tucked in to some toast and marmalade. "Pass the coffee, Mick."

* * *

Despite the chill wind, people were hanging about outside the grey, palladian building, smoking and talking, rubbing their hands together to stay warm. Ash, in the black Savile Row suit he had had made especially for the occasion, purposefully climbed the stairs to the imposing entrance and pushed open the glass door. In the marble vestibule, he checked the list of meetings being held there that day, then made his way to the room where the Solicitors Disciplinary Tribunal was scheduled to take place. It had already started as he slipped in and sat down on the back row of chairs.

"I'd like to submit for the tribunal's consideration these documents..."

"Duly noted, Mr. Crandall. Do you intend to call any witnesses in support of your client's case?"

"Er...just the one, Miss Harris herself."

"Very well. Please proceed."

The clerk of the tribunal went through the oath-taking and sat down.

Crandall began. "Miss Harris, in your own words, can you explain the charges brought against you regarding this alleged breach of client confidentiality?"

"I firmly believe that my name has been used without authorisation to produce and disseminate the documents published in the press," replied the woman.

"And can you tell the tribunal how this happened?"

"I have been the victim of some kind of practical joke. Somebody has, in effect, stolen my identity and used it to perpetrate this...this..." Harris was almost spluttering with rage by this point, and Ash succeeded, with great effort, in maintaining his solemn aspect. He jotted down a few lines from time to time in a reporter's notebook, lest anyone wonder why he was there.

"So identity theft is at the heart of this matter?" prompted Crandall.

"Absolutely."

"And do you know who is responsible for this theft?"

"Not at this time. I have, however, engaged the services of an investigation agency to try and discover who is responsible. I expect their report in the next few days."

Crandall spoke. "If it please the Tribunal, I would like to ask for an adjournment to enable Miss Harris to introduce the investigative report into evidence."

There was a brief consultation among the tribunal panel members, then the chairman said, "It would have been more appropriate if that request had been made prior to this hearing. For that reason, the request is refused and we will conclude these proceedings in a timely manner. Please continue with your evidence, Miss Harris."

Struggling to keep her composure, Harris replied, "_I_ am the victim here. I have been the target of some kind of vendetta..."

"Do you have any evidence to support that allegation?" asked the chairman.

There was an uncomfortable silence, and then the barely audible response from Harris: "No, I do not."

"Then we will carry on. If you have no further evidence to add, Miss Harris, we will ask you to step down."

Incensed but silent, the disgraced lawyer took her seat beside Stuart Crandall. The chairman announced that there would be a thirty-minute break, and the members retired to consider their findings. Harris and Crandall left the room for about twenty minutes, and when they returned, another man had arrived and seated himself away from everyone else. Nicole Harris walked over to him, and given the size of the room, Ash couldn't avoid overhearing their conversation.

"Grandfather..." The distinguished-looking older man looked up at her as she stood by his chair. "I thought you would come as a character witness for me. Why didn't you get here earlier? I was counting on you!"

"I'm only here to follow this whole sorry business through to the end, Nicole. Once the verdict is announced, I'll go. The outcome doesn't have any bearing on how things will go in future; I still stand by what I said about supporting you. It's time you stood on your own two feet. You can't expect me to keep paying your way – you're twenty-nine, for heaven's sake!"

"But Grandpapa, if I don't have a practice, I'll lose the apartment, the ski lodge...everything!" the woman almost wailed.

"Perhaps that's for the best. Having all this success and property doesn't seem to have done you much good, does it? A spell on your uppers could be just the thing to make you see sense." William Greig stood and as he was leaving, told his granddaughter, "Get a job as a waitress or something like that. You could do with a dose of humility."

It was all Ash could do to not let out a loud guffaw at the irony of an MP delivering such advice. He covered with a sneeze and a cough, and received scarcely a glance from the pair. Harris was too wrapped up in her own personal fall from grace to notice a former client, and at that moment the tribunal members re-entered the room. Once everyone was seated, the chairman declared, "The Findings of this Tribunal in the matter of Nicole Harris are that she is guilty of serious professional misconduct, and should be struck off the Roll. A fine of £3,000 is also imposed. These Findings will be available in writing at the conclusion of this hearing." He banged a gavel on the table, and the meeting was over.

Harris leaned on the table, head in hands, while Crandall tried to offer some consolation. Ash heard the word "appeal" as he walked quietly up behind them and, unnoticed, placed some papers on the vacant chair beside Harris. He then turned and left the room.

A few moments later, Harris got up to go. "Are those yours?" Crandall asked her, pointing to the documents Ash had left.

"No, I don't think so." All the same, she picked them up. She stared at them, transfixed, for a full minute, until Crandall had finished gathering his own paperwork together and lifted his briefcase from the table.

"Ready to go?" he enquired, and started to leave. When Harris remained rooted to the spot, he moved back to her side.

"What is it? Are these yours after all?"

Speechless with shock, she nodded. Crandall gently took the papers from her hands and read them.

"This is an old medical compensation case of yours from six years ago. What's it doing here?"

Still unable to speak, Harris shook her head. Crandall read on.

"This can't be right. The date on this application is well over the time limit from the date of the accident. It would have fallen at the first hurdle." He looked sharply at Harris. "Did you know about this? Does it have something to do with today?"

"Leave it, Stuart. Just leave it," the woman snapped at him, all the while most definitely not leaving the papers behind for others to see. Only Crandall had seen the name on the case file: Mrs. June Morgan.


End file.
